Vaultby
Chris Dee

Flashback

“This sword has not run through any infidels in quite some
time, but I am sure it is still sharp enough.”

That’s what he said. Really.

“Mark, word of advice,” I told him, ignoring a poke at my
back with the tip of the sword. “If that’s the best you can do on the
villainous banter, maybe steer clear of doing it in English. With the guttural
accent, you’ve got a real MWA-HAHA thing going and it comes off pretty silly.”

“These are your chosen last words, woman?”

There was another poke at the small of my back, a poke that
was pure bluff… I hoped. I could have pivoted and grabbed, but it was
risky. My claws can do plenty of damage, even through Bat-body armor I can draw
blood and tear meat, but a blind swipe would probably miss. An effective strike
would mean holding the blade in place while I aimed at the arm holding it, i.e. a test of strength, if only for a second or two. And I knew from our first
fight that he was strong. That’s why I’d opted for banter in the first place,
and that’s why I kept on with it. If you keep your head in these situations
instead of going all high kicks and headbutts like some mindless she-Rambo,
something always shifts.

“Fine, Mark, be that way. Mwa-haha all you want if it makes
you feel like a man. But we both know you’ve got two very serious problems to
clear up before you can use that sword on me. And since I know that as well as
you do, the threats do come off a bit silly.”

“American arrogance,” he muttered, and I laughed.

“You’re a pretty interesting guy, Mark. You’re talking to
someone draped in purple leather from head to toe and wearing a catmask, and you
think ‘woman’ and ‘American’ are the shots to take? I don’t know if you’ve got
the imagination for this kind of work, Mark, I really don’t. But let’s put that
aside and talk about your problems, shall we?”

I hadn’t raised my hands at his pointy-stick-in-the-back
routine, and now I turned and stepped backward, clear of the blade. He
continued to point it at me like it was a magic wand or something, and I was
forced to point out that the sword-as-phallus thing is a sad enough metaphor
with actual warriors ready to strike. But when you can’t actually use
the weapon, and particularly when your would-be victim knows you can’t
use it…

As I spoke, the tip of the blade inched downward, just like
a wilting erection. It was unbelievable, really, considering the topic of
conversation. You’d think the idiot would have just resheathed as quickly as
possible, get the thing out of sight, out of mind. But that’s the thing about
the truly stupid ones: when they don’t get it, they don’t get any of it. Their
consistency is amazing... and the reason banter works. If there’s a mistake to
be made, they’ll make it. You just need to give them time.

“Your problems,” I repeated. “First and foremost, Mark,
you’d be a fool to kill me before finding out how I know that you’re Mark
Barras, Orellistr 21 in Kreis 7, close enough to Mum’s place in Seefeld to go
home for Sunday dinner each week.”

“How do you know this?” came the predictable question in
the predictably menacing delivery.

“Of course, if you manage to answer that one, you’ve still
got the original difficulty. When I first got to Zurich, I thought you must be
an incredible wimp not to have polished off the vault in a single strike.”

He laughed bitterly, and I smiled.

“Yes, well, that was before I saw it, obviously. Then I
faced that charming vertical climb and your problem became clear. You can’t get
the stuff out. You can stuff your pockets with gems each trip, sure. But the
easiest things to take down here are the hardest to sell up there, aren’t they?
Legit dealers have to document where the stones come from. They ask questions
you can’t answer. And you don’t have the contacts in the black market to find
the other kind of dealers, let alone judge which ones will buy and which will
slit your throat for the first handful of whatever you bring them.”

He tilted his head forward ever so slightly, not quite a
nod, but a grudging admission that I was right.

“All I have been able to sell are a few gold pieces,” he
said. “And there is a limit to how many of those can be found in a great aunt’s
attic without arousing suspicion. I managed to get a jeweled anlace to the
surface, only to have a thieving antiques dealer tell me it was a twentieth
century fake made to cash in on an American fad called Dungeons & Dragons.”

The bitter laugh returned, and he gestured
around the heaps of treasure, repeating the phrase ‘dungeons and dragons.’

“The lying cheat offered me a hundred Euros for it.”

“Not exactly the payday you killed your brother for,” I
noted.

He looked up sharply.

“Carl would not have known where to find a first class
fence any more than I do,” he said coldly.

That wasn’t necessarily true. Carl did work at the bank.
Bernard knew me and Igor, and Mark’s father, Carl Augustiner Sr, undoubtedly
had a few connected clients as well. If Carl Jr. had stuck with it instead of
opting for the instant payoff, he would have eventually learned a name or two.
At least, he would have if he’d lived. I didn’t name names, of course, but I
let Mark know just enough of this to throw him off balance. He hadn’t denied
killing his brother, but he hadn’t confirmed it either. I needed to change
that.

I dangled highlights of my resume in front of him: the
Egyptian antiquities, the Greek mirror and the Etruscan vase; the Hapsburg
Dagger, the Kimberley Canary and the Crimson Star; my first old master was a
Cezanne, my last a Rembrandt… and so on.

The shift, when it came, was quite dramatic. He still
didn’t like me, he still didn’t trust me, but it finally dawned on him that he
was standing in front of a world class thief, breathing the same air as someone
with all the fencing connections he lacked. He became more communicative. It
took some doing to really put him off his guard, though. It took a half-hour
discussion of the practical problems removing a two hundred pound Maya jaguar
from a well-secured gallery without an army of henchmen, but finally I was able
to get the whole story. He confirmed each aspect of my theory: Carl’s
revelation about the vault, the betrayal and the murder, all just as I had
guessed it.

“Thank you,” I said, tapping a ball on the head of my whip
and the WayneTech camera it concealed. “I was afraid I might have to edit out
the parts where I talked about getting the stone jaguar. Pesky thing about
these digital recorders, the embedded timestamps are hard to tamper with. But
you were good enough to wait until I finished before the big confession, so…”

I was ready for the sword strike that came next; it was
painfully predictable. I had maneuvered over to the shields and used one to
block rather than disarming him with the whip. His strikes were panicked,
desperate, and unfocused. It was better to let him vent a bit—and tire
himself out—rather than disarm him at once and let the frustration keep
building. I needed him to focus, and that wasn’t going to happen until he
calmed the hell down.

He managed to land four actual blows against the shield,
each a little wilder and weaker than the last. That’s the thing about amateurs,
they’re not used to confrontations and they burn up the adrenaline during
foreplay. I kicked him back after the fourth strike and he didn’t have the
stuff to come back at me. The whip took care of the rest, but once he was down
and disarmed, I decided to give his hand a good clawing to preempt any more
swordplay.

“Now then,” I resumed, “Don’t get all panicky in a cave
full of lethal weapons. Your confession isn’t going to the police unless you
absolutely insist on it. It’s going to the partners, and since they don’t want
the existence of this vault revealed to the world, they’ll keep it to themselves
as long as you cooperate.”

“C-cooperate?” he panted.

“When you’re arrested for breaking into a different
vault—several in fact. Turns out four different jewelers on the Bahnhofstrasse were burgled tonight, Mark, with all the proceeds left in your
flat… where the police should be finding it right about now. Ta!”

$280 –kwak– with discounts –kwak– to have the
schedules fiddled with until Poison Ivy’s session with Dr. Bartholomew preceded
his own, and another $50 to have Saul Vics look the other way so they could have
a private chat in the outer office. Of course, the latter was only theoretical
money, not hard cash. A $50 credit towards a Bose entertainment center Vics
wanted and to which Oswald was now applying his bribes. The $280,
unfortunately, had to be paid to an office temp, regrettably not as gullible as
Vics and insisting on actual cash.

It was an expense, to be sure. Especially when all Oswald
needed to do to see Ivy face-to-face was ignore his prepaid exemption from the
social hour and let himself be taken to the common room like everyone else. But
bribes were non-refundable, and it was so much more agreeable to have privacy
for conversations of this nature.

Oswald perused an ancient Newsweek featuring Martin Sheen,
ultra-liberal star of the West Wing portraying an ultra-liberal president,
sharing his thoughts on the newly elected Alexander Luthor… Oswald marveled
that even in the criminal wing of an insane asylum, the magazines outside a
doctor’s office must be years out of date.

At last the door opened, and Ivy emerged speaking hurriedly
about yellow roses and Peruvian lilies. Bartholomew assured her they would
pick up there next time, and she called him a small-minded troglodyte without
taste, brains, or a soul.

So that was it. Kitty’s adventure in the vault out of
legend concluded exactly where it began, in Bernard’s office over a fresh box of
Sprüngli pralines. No race up a pyramid of fire to reach the totem of
space-time before the infidel. Not a single pillar of godlight to burn the
unworthy seekers into ash. Not that I was complaining. I don’t think
Bruce would be very amused if I asked him to move his giant penny so I could put
the Ark of the Covenant in his trophy room.

Bernard was pleased. The arrest went as expected, and the
video evidence of Mark’s confession was entrusted to Carl Senior. If and when
Mark got out of prison, it would be his decision how to proceed. After
all, they were both his sons.

We hadn’t discussed payment, but I knew the moment had
arrived when Bernard scratched his nose. It’s a very subtle signal, like
Alfred’s cough. I’m not even sure he’s aware of it, but it means the social
pleasantries are concluded—or in this case, the unsavory blackmailing of the
junior partner’s bastard son is concluded—and he’s ready to get down to
business.

He hit the intercom, and Carl Senior came in with a thin,
elegant weapon, like a miniature dagger. His English wasn’t nearly as fluent as
Bernard’s, and he spoke very carefully, presumably from a memorized script.

“The police found this in Mark’s flat,” he said, handing me
the piece. “Because it did not belong to any of the jewelers that were robbed,
it came to me. It is surely from the vault. It is now yours. For payment.
With thanks.”

“The anlace he tried to sell,” I guessed,
examining it.

It was a beautiful piece. Solid gold. The handle depicted
a helmeted figure in Grecian dress with long flowing hair that curved back into
the bottom of the toga, making a handy loop to grip the thing. The figure held
a disc, also gold and pocked with red enamel that might have been made from
garnet dust or even ruby.

I thanked them both… It felt very, very strange… Of
all the payoffs I’d received over the years, this was the most solemn ceremony.
It felt good to have beaten the bad guy. It felt very good to have such an
exquisite (and valuable) memento of the adventure. It felt odd to know it was
part of the treasure a human being had killed his own brother to obtain. And it
felt… good but… confusing… for the men paying me off at the end of a job
to be so grateful.

Bruce guessed what was happening when Wayne One returned to
Gotham but Selina didn’t return to the manor. He’d done the same thing when she
got back from Xanadu: Batman had a gift to deliver, so he avoided her as Bruce
Wayne until he could meet her on a rooftop and present it to her in costume.
This seemed like the same dynamic. If Selina wasn’t coming home to the
manor, it was almost certainly because she wanted to see Batman first.

Under other circumstances, he’d be as eager as she was.
But tonight, Batman had news that Kitten wasn’t going to like.

Reasoning that, even without the unwelcome news, the
reunion with Catwoman would take some time, he called Dick to take over his
early patrol.

Meow.
Meoooooooooooooowwwww.

I’d never been terribly domestic, especially with the cat
lairs, but tonight I kept fluffing the pillows and dusting the knickknacks. I
was wild with excitement, had been ever since the plane touched down. It built
in the taxi from the airstrip, it spiked when I opened the door to the lair, and
then it settled into this dizzy euphoria of anticipation.

Meow.
Meoooooooooooooowwwww.

I couldn’t even remember when I’d been
this high.

First time in the catsuit was pretty damn good. First
encounter with Batman, of course, and the first kiss on Cartier’s roof… getting
away with the Sekhmet amulet after he put up such a fight—Oh, and getting away
with the Picasso that time! After he stayed on my heels all the way down to 28th
Street…

The loot! My god, I forgot the loot!

I ran to my bag and unpacked the anlace. It was just large
enough to use as a letter opener in the morning room—that’s assuming I didn’t
want to place it in the trophy room after all. It rather appealed, having
something of mine in there besides an old whip handle.

In any case, whatever I might do with it in the future,
tonight it was the prize. It was Catwoman’s prize for a job well done,
and a prize Batman had forbidden me to take (always a bonus). When Batman
is expected at the lair any minute, you want the forbidden object front and
center.

Meow.
Meoooooooooooooowwwww.

The sun had gone down an hour ago. He could arrive at any
time… I fluffed the pillows again and straightened a Bast statuette. My
heart was beating like a hummingbird’s.

Before I left, I told Bruce I’d been sucked into plenty of
adventures like this when I was working. I’d thought about that the whole
flight home. The throwback had been sweet, of course, that taste of my old life
after so long… But then… then… Meooooooowwww…

There was one thing I could never have back then. A good
night was a good night. A good prowl was the sweetest pleasure I knew. But
when it was over, there was just home, Whiskers and Nutmeg. A cup of cocoa and
the memory of a new Bat-encounter to dream on. But now… now…
Meoooooooooooooowwwww.

I licked a glovetip and buffed the gold emblem
on the chest of the Bast statue.

I arranged myself in a feline pose on the sofa, then gave
the pillow a last fluff and lay back again.

An hour and ten minutes since the sun went down.

Meoooooooooooooowwwww.

Dick Grayson walked into the living room and regarded his
wife with a stunned expression.

“Babs, we may want to postpone the dinner with Wally and
Linda,” he said dully.

“Oh hell, what’s up? Some League thing? I didn’t see
anything in the briefing, but I only skimmed…”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that. It’s just… I’ve been
grounded.”

“Excuse me?”

“I… It… Y’ever see something or hear something that
reminds you so much of the past, you just snap right back into being Batgirl?”

“I guess, sort of. Sometimes when I hear a siren I still
get the itch to—”

“No, I don’t mean a reminder; I mean a complete flashback.
‘Cause I was just on the phone with Bruce. And one minute, I’m a grown man
standing in my own kitchen. And a second later, it’s like: cape, short pants,
and I hear myself needling him about getting me out of the way so he could go
after Catwoman on his own. And, well, I’m grounded for two weeks.”

Barbara stared in horror, unable for a moment
to even laugh at this lunacy.

“Well first, Dickie, my silllybird, you are a grown
man now, and your father cannot ground you, send you to your room, or dock your
allowance.”

“Yeah, I do realize that, Babs. But if we go out with
Wally and Linda, this is all going to come out. I know Wally, and somehow or
other, between the cheese fondue and the margaritas, the whole story will come
out. And then he’s going to go to some League meeting and have a laughing fit
every time Bruce opens his mouth. Kyle will start ribbing him, ‘Mr. Flash,
perhaps you’d like to tell the rest of the class what’s so funny,’ and before I
know it, the whole story is telepathically broadcast to four star systems.”

“Should have thought of that before you teased him,”
Barbara noted.

“I, it… I couldn’t help it. Barbara, I couldn’t help it;
it was a flashback. I mean, with all this ‘she’s the new queen of the
underworld’ talk flying around all week, and now he wants Nightwing to take a
patrol for him so he can go to the catlair and confront her himself.”

“He’s not ‘confronting’ her, Dickie. For
God’s sake, we’re
talking about Bruce and Selina here. She’s been out of town for weeks, they’re
probably can’t wait to… y’know.”

“I realize that, Babs, I really do. But you’ve got
to realize how often this kind of thing went on when I was growing up.”

She sighed, then put her hands on her hips in a typical
Batgirl pose and spoke in the smug big sister tone that marked many of their
early encounters.

“Seems you’ve dug yourself in pretty good there, Boy
Wonder.”

Dick stalked off muttering “Holy nobody understands my
problems, holy never had a sense of humor anyway, holy one innocent joke in the
spirit of old times and the whole friggin’ world crashes down…”

Batman approached the cat lair as he had many times
before. He removed a glove and placed the pad of his index finger on the
reader, waited three seconds, and then slipped the Bat-pick into the lock.
Forty seconds later, he was heading through an entrance hall just narrow enough
to subject an intruder to a nasty spray of knockout gas or a paralyzing jolt of
electricity if this were the kind of hideout that employed such traps, and
finally reaching the main…

He stopped, subconscious tactical analysis of the physical
space suspended and his body stunned into immobility by a much different kind of
electricity as the sight registered:

Catwoman… stretched out on her side, on a leopard print
throw… toying with a lethal looking dagger, rubbing the sharp tip of the blade
against the sharper edge of her claw… Her tongue creeping out between her lips
and licking the corner of her mouth… while she fixed him with a low, ravenous
glare, like the predator she was eying prey…

“Dangerous toy you’ve got there,” he observed dryly.

She laid it aside brusquely and stood, an almost hypnotic
rhythm in the sway of her hips as she approached with that unmistakably feline
gait. Usually the movement was deliberately seductive… tonight, it was hungry.

“It is,” she said, a voice of hot, liquid want pouring over
the words. “Dangerous… but I can handle it… I’m the only one who can.”

It was clear she meant him. It was also clear this was not
the time to bring up the Iceberg situation. Electricity pulsed through his body
as the tip of her claw traced the lower scallop of the bat emblem. Then her
head tipped back, lips parted, in an unfathomable merging of cat and woman. She
looked exactly like a cat exhibiting the openmouthed, flared nostril
Flehmen reaction in response to prey; she looked exactly like a woman
tilting her head to invite a kiss from her lover, she looked… she looked… ooooh.

Batman suppressed a wince as the tips of her
claws poked through the crevice where the body armor met the belt, and he moved
reflexively to grab her wrist and move it clear—but not before feeling the
scrape of cold metal grazing the skin of his side. Instead of the usual
hiss whenever he grabbed her that way, she let out a low, rumbling laugh that
sent a shiver up his spine, around his neck, across his shoulder and straight
down his chest into his gut… a husky laugh that spoke clearly as a single word: mine.

A strange, once-familiar paralysis spread like ice through
his brain. He should say… something or… do something… not just stand
there like a statue while this wild, untamable creature stood there taunting him
with her brazen criminal felinity.

“Ahh-I…” he managed stupidly—when she pounced.

Instantly, he was on his back, on the floor as
she straddled him.

They stared deep into each other’s eyes, excitement,
anticipation, eagerness and even a touch of fear all building to a fever pitch.
With a jolt, he pulled her head down hard, his own coming up to meet it halfway. Their mouths collided, tongues searching desperately…

OraCom: Channel 2—Nightwing

..:: Wing?::..

“Go ahead, O.”

..:: Update, sweet’ums. Highway patrol picked up the
escapees on the Pennsylvania turnpike. They’ll be back in Blackgate by
morning.::..

“Shit. They did get out of the state, and they made it all
the way to Pennsylvania?”

..:: That’s where they keep the Pennsylvania turnpike.
Which means…::..

“Fresh squeezed orange juice, and a toasted English muffin
dripping with an absurd amount of butter and a tiny dollop of honey—in the
morning. For now, I’m going to keep an eye on this place. If they’re not our
jailbirds, they’re still up to something in there, I can smell it.”

..:: Roger. Oh, and I called Keystone. Linda's not having
it. She's already lined up the babysitter, she's made sure Wally has the
evening off, and she's got a new dress she's been wanting to wear that Wally,
ahem, doesn't know about. Dinner is on, make your peace with it.::..

“Rassafrassin smiggleworfin”

..:: What was that?::..

“I said the Melting Pot sounds good. Love that cheese
fondue.”

Bruce lay naked on the floor of the lair, a jumble of
fabric—cape, catsuit, and the leopard throw pulled down from the sofa—crumpled under his body and tangled through his legs and around his hip. Sharp
claws had ripped fabric, and strong hands had torn leather. The remains would
suffice for modesty around the lair, but not much else.

He looked up at Selina, the back of her hair just visible
as she made coffee in the lair’s small kitchen, and he marveled, as always, at
the transition from tigress to kitten. An hour before she was a wild thing,
animal passion incarnate. And then, while her chest still heaved with
exhaustion after the raw, primal sex, she became so tender, brushing his cheek
with a kiss he could barely feel and curling into his side with a barely audible
“I love you, Bruce.”

He reeled. In his depleted condition and
in such charged circumstances, hearing his name on Catwoman’s lips was beyond…
anything. Then, after a doze, she told him about her adventures and with such a glow of girlish
enthusiasm that you had to love her. She got up, smiling, purring, happy to be home,
and padded off to change into a t-shirt—although she undoubtedly had a
spare costume on the premises, a thought that brought Bruce’s mind back to his
own ravaged tunic and the inadvisability of attempting a late patrol now.

He got up, put on the leggings, and examined the dagger
until she returned with the coffee.

“The souvenir I told you not to take?” he chided playfully.

“Oh, how I wish it were,” she said, sticking out her
tongue. “But alas, no. Payment for services rendered. Freely given. Woof.”

“Well, it sounds like you earned it,” he admitted. Then he
sipped, looked at her… and took a deep breath. It was time. “We have to talk,”
he said gravely.

“A collective bargaining unit?” Ivy asked, crinkling her
nose.

“Precisely, dear duchess of daffodils. It has come to my
attention that we who are at the forefront of roguedom collectively squander a
woeful amount on a few opportunistic individuals in this establishment simply to
procure those privileges which are ours by right on the outside by virtue of who
we are.”

“Are you addled? Oswald, you don’t imagine that I have to
pay for favors in this place?”

A whiff of irritated lemon tickled Oswald’s nostrils, as if
to punctuate the question.

“I am aware of your abilities, naturally,” he said, raising
a handkerchief delicately to his nose. “But surely, there are undesirable
consequences to using them here. An aftermath, if you will. Punitive bouts of
solitary confinement and the like?”

“Naturally, but when I get worked up, it’s worth it.”

“Yes, kwak, of course, but for the day to day conveniences,
it isn’t practical, now is it?”

“Well…”

“And if the fees charged by these uncouth peasants were
reasonable, you might well wish to avail yourself of their services? An hour of
solitude in a private bath, for instance, with a scented candle and mineral
salts, kwak? Palatable food, served in your cell for you and a guest?
Harley, perhaps? Kwakwak?”

“I’m listening.”

“I have taken the liberty of negotiating fixed fees with
sympathetic members of the staff for various services. As with arranging a
diversion or alibi through the Iceberg, all arrangements would be made through
myself or my appointed agent once I am released—”

“Meaning you get a cut. Knowing you, you probably get most
of it, and the Arkham staff doing the dirty work is doing it for only a pittance
of what we’re paying you.”

“My good woman, that is a matter between them and me. All
that concerns you is that these low and reasonable rates are available only
through my good offices. I assure you, Pamela, that none of you could
possibly negotiate such a deal yourselves, for in all the years you have been
incarcerated here, none of you have even attempted it. –kwak– It is only
right that he who discovers the gold mine lays claim to an eagle’s share of the
riches that will henceforth be -kwakwakak- Pamela please, the lemon, kwakwakwak…”

“In the history of mankind, nothing good has ever followed
those words,” Selina noted.

“And this is no exception,” Bruce graveled. “Selina, that
day you came down to the cave and got your fur so ruffled about Cobblepot, do
you remember the one reservation I had about moving against him?”

“Let’s see… I remember the blood dripping from your fangs,
‘size and scope of the opportunity,’ ‘someone of Penguin’s stature that got
away with it over and over again,’ ‘the message it would send…’”

“Admirable recall. And counterbalancing all that?”

“Oh, right. ‘The devil you know.’ Taking down someone so
crucial to the underworld has repercussions, creates a power vacuum. Quite a
risk when there’s no telling who might step up to take his place.”

“Exactly. And that’s exactly what appears to have
occurred. Just as I feared, the new individual at the helm of Cobblepot’s
former empire is infinitely more… problematic.”

“Woof. So much for a welcome home getaway to the Catitat,
then. And who is this nuisance?”

Bruce’s lip twitched, and he casually turned the Bast
statuette on the table as if to better admire it.

“As I said, from Batman’s point of view, this new adversary
is uniquely problematic. Turns out, Catwoman… it’s you.”